


The Holiday Spirit

by geekmama



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-29 17:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8499685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: There's nothing like a little holiday romance...





	1. October

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Spirit" prompt.
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“Aren’t you going in fancy dress?” John asked blandly, looking his friend up and down.

Mary, moll to John’s dapper 30’s gangster, gave an amused snort, and Molly, feeling lovely in Renaissance velvet, lace, and pearls, giggled, though she also cast a sympathetic and somewhat nervous look at Sherlock, who had begun to scowl. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to get Sherlock to agree to attend the Yard’s annual Halloween bash at all, as John well knew, and Molly feared he might refuse even yet, with the cab already pulled up outside 221B.

It was true that he didn’t look too much different than usual, with his black suit, white shirt, and pale skin. The slicked back hair was the main difference, and the cape, though his Belstaff had virtually the same effect.

But now he narrowed his eyes, and his slow smile revealed startlingly realistic fangs. He said, in a spot-on Bela Lugosi accent, “Take care, little man. The night is young, and my thirst is unquenchable _._ ”

“Oh ho!” John grinned. “Very good!”

“Should’ve brought a wooden stake instead of a tommy gun,” Mary commented. “But at least we’re wearing high collars. Molly’s the one in real trouble.”

Molly, suddenly all too aware of the deep cut decolletage of her velvet gown, blushed, but said, lightly, “No, no, the Count and I are just friends. Come on! Mrs. Hudson’s downstairs ready to take our picture, and the cab’s waiting at the curb!”

 

*

 

“Just friends, eh?” Mary said, several hours, many drinks, and much dancing later.

Sherlock and John were at the curb, flagging down another cab to take them home, while Mary and Molly hung back in the shelter of the overhang, out of the light rain.

Molly avoided Mary’s laughing eyes. “You mean when Sherlock and I stepped out for a bit? You know how he is about parties. He needed a breather, and I popped into the loo. We didn’t miss much.”

“Didn’t miss _anything_ , from the state of your neck. Did he take his fangs off before giving you that love bite?”

Molly gasped and hurriedly wrapped her shawl much higher, shrouding her neck and chest.

But Mary chuckled. “No, he didn’t _really_ leave evidence -- not that kind.”

“Oh! _You_ … Wh-what kind did he leave, then? We weren’t gone _that_ long!”

“Long enough to be well snogged, which was fairly evident, to me at least. Was that your first time?”

Molly considered pokering up and refusing to reply, but then thought better of it. “No, we’ve… _snogged_ before. But we’re taking it slowly.”

“Slowly! What has it been, seven years since he first invaded your morgue?”

 _And my heart_ , Molly could not help thinking, ruefully.

“I’m not an idiot, though,” Mary assured her, putting an arm about her shoulders and giving her a brief hug. “The elusive Consulting Detective must be stalked with the greatest stealth and care. I won’t tease him. And I frankly admire you.”

Molly frowned. “You do?”

“Of course.” Mary tossed a brilliant smile at Sherlock and John as they turned to beckon their ladies to the cab they’d snagged, and said to Molly, surreptitiously, “With that kind of patience, you must be a bona fide _saint!_ ”


	2. November

Circumstances had evolved to ensnare him in a most unscrupulous way, Sherlock thought morosely, though he could not bring himself to be more specific in placing blame for his current predicament.

First it had been John.

“Listen, my friend Alex Turner, the Yank I’ve told you about, met him when we were stationed in Afghanistan? Well, he and his wife have invited Mary and Gracie and I over to celebrate Thanksgiving with them, and their whole family, really, and they want  _ you _ to come!”

“Thanksgiving? Why on earth would I want to do that? Don’t they just sit about and eat and watch their version of football?”

“Yeah, all right, but it’s not just that. I mean the food’s terrific -- Thanksgiving rolled around when we were still in Afghanistan and Alex invited me to be his guest at the dinner they put on at the base. I thought it one of the best meals I’d ever had, bar none, but he said it was nothing to what his family did every year. But the main thing is, it’s just so laid back. Just good fun, good food, good company.  And it turns out they’ve been reading my blog for years now. They’re quite anxious to meet you. He lives in Virginia, too, right outside Washington D.C. Loads of things to see there, from what he says. Have you ever been there?”

“Not for years. My parents took me over when I was still at school.” Sherlock had still been skeptical, but he’d said, “I’ll consider it and let you know.”

Then a day later, Mycroft had come to see him. “I understand you’ve been invited to the Washington D.C. area.”

Sherlock, glaring daggers, had immediately begun looking for newly placed surveillance cameras.

But Mycroft said, “No, Sherlock, it was John who told me. We… er… ran into each other yesterday afternoon. He’s quite anxious that you accept the invitation. I believe he thinks you’re lonely.”

This last was said in a tone of spurious sympathy that made Sherlock’s jaw clench. “God preserve me from--”

“-- _ friends? _ ” Mycroft smiled. “I quite thought you had come to differ from me on that particular subject, but perhaps I was mistaken. Yet there are other reasons you may wish to visit Washington. You could do a couple of trifling errands for me while you’re there, for example.”

“Is that right? I should have known you had an ulterior motive.”

“You wrong me. I never have less than six or seven. But yes, as long as you’re going…”

“Who said I am?”

“John has great hopes of it, for one. And I’d make it worth your while. The usual arrangement.”

“Is there some risk?”

“Not at all, this time, I’m afraid.”

“Hmmm.”

“I know. Boring. But you would be doing the government a favor, as well as pleasing your friend. Friends. I believe John said Mary is counting on your presence to enliven the festivities.”

“Is she?” Sherlock almost cracked a smile. “All right. I suppose it can’t be more boring than London is at present. The criminal class seems to have gone off on holiday, so I will, too.”

Sherlock had told John a couple of days later.

“That’s brilliant! And Mary’ll be pleased, as well. But mate…”

Sherlock frowned at the sudden concern in John’s eyes. “What?”

“Well, I was texting back and forth with Alex last night and he mentioned he has a cousin that’s coming. Something of a Sherlock Holmes fangirl, apparently.”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re joking. An American?”

“From Boston. She’ll be staying at the house, too. They’ve a big place, but Alex wanted you to be warned she’ll probably… eh… hit on you. As they say.”

“Good God,” Sherlock muttered.

Which is how Molly Hooper came into the picture.

“Thanksgiving?” She smiled. “Really? And you’re asking me along?”

“Yes. I thought you would enjoy observing the culture. It might be interesting from a scientific standpoint.”

She laughed. “It might at that. All right. I’ll talk to Mike about getting a few days off.”

The flight to Dulles on the morning of the American holiday had gone well. It had been Gracie Watson’s first time on an airplane, but the four adults had managed to keep her happy and occupied for the duration of the flight with endless repetitions of her favorite board books and, having reserved exit row seats with concomitant additional legroom, spreading a blanket on the floor so she could play with a few beloved toys. About halfway across she also decided that Sherlock’s lap was the perfect place for a kip, much to the others’ amusement. Ultimately, however, Sherlock found that he didn’t much mind providing his goddaughter with a resting place, even catching a few winks himself, as recorded for posterity by the camera of John’s mobile phone.

They landed a few minutes after noon, picked up a rental car, and were pulling up to the Turner residence in Fairfax a short time later, just as many of the other guests were arriving, in fact. These mostly consisted of Turner relations of all ages. Gracie was the only toddler, however, and a couple of school aged girls immediately claimed her for their own, leaving her parents, Sherlock, and Molly free to mingle and partake as they would for the rest of the afternoon. It was certainly a convivial gathering, and the array of food and drink with which they were regaled was astonishing in both quantity and quality. Sherlock found himself enjoying both the feast and the friendly interest of the guests, though happily, due to Molly’s presence, the fangirl cousin kept a discreet distance. Molly, of course, had not been informed of the underlying purpose of Sherlock’s invitation, and was a little surprised at his unusual attentiveness, and suspicious, too, though not displeased. Sherlock counted The Molly Diversion a rousing success.

When the seemingly incessant televised football games were winding down, an impromptu games night had been initiated. Both Sherlock and Molly had been lauded as invaluable in a hotly contested game of Trivial Pursuit (Molly had proved Sherlock’s superior, in fact, loathe as he was to admit it, having a far more extensive knowledge of pop culture at her disposal than he). Yet jet lag inevitably took its toll and by ten o’clock Molly and Sherlock were bidding the company goodnight.

They had been assigned quarters in the basement of the house, a comfortable bedroom down a short hall from the roomy and elaborately appointed Rumpus Room. There was only one bed, but he and Molly had shared many times in the past. Anyway, it was 3:00 a.m. London time, and they were replete with feasting. Trouble sleeping was the last thing Sherlock had been worried about .

But now, at 6:00 a.m. London time, he had come to the realization that he should not have been quite so confident. The noise from the Rumpus Room had finally died down -- it was serving as headquarters for the half dozen children old enough to bed down in sleeping bags, away from their parents, and they’d been in the midst of a movie when Sherlock and Molly had passed through earlier. But the bedroom was cold, far colder than what they were used to. The blankets had seemed adequate, but over the course of the last three hours, as the room became even colder, they had found themselves inching closer and closer to each other for additional warmth. Now they were “spooning”, her back curled against his front, his arm draped over and holding her close, and though Molly, seemed to have dozed off, the situation was proving far more problematic for Sherlock. Her proximity (which would have been skin to skin if they’d been naked, though that was clearly the wrong thing to contemplate when their hips were placed just so), the texture and scent of her hair (it was virtually impossible to keep from nuzzling the delicious softness), and the feel of her abdomen, warm and alive beneath his hand, all conspired against him to such an extent that he was beginning to wonder if he would ever sleep again. The problem was related, in a way, to the NSY Halloween party and the brief yet highly intriguing interlude they’d shared in that darkened alcove. The memory had assumed and maintained a prominent place in Sherlock’s mind palace since the evening of its creation, and was always enhanced by Molly’s actual presence. And she was  _ extremely _ present, at the moment.

She suddenly sighed, took up the hand that lay flat against her belly and drew it up to rest against her bosom.

He made a slight choking noise.

She roused, her hips stirring against his, then stilled abruptly.

Then she turned over, beneath his arm, so that they were almost nose to nose in the blackness.

“Are you alright?” she whispered.

“Fine,” he whispered back. A blatant lie.

After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “I’m sorry. Shall I go away?”

“Where? And it’s bloody freezing.”

“Yes.”

There was nothing for it. He kissed her. Slow and chaste. Yet there was a certain tension. A slight trembling.

He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I can’t sleep.”

She kissed him, this time, then laid her forehead against his. After a moment, she said, feather soft, “I could help with that.”

His breath caught. Objections, dissembling, languid humor were all quite beyond him. He could summon only one word for her, a single word...

“Please?” 


	3. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... _Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men_ , indeed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, posting this early as _I_ need cheering up.
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Things were never really the same between them after their Thanksgiving holiday. For the first few days after their return, Sherlock avoided Molly, both at Bart’s and during her off hours. She was not particularly disturbed by this development. He had been thrown off-kilter, as she was herself, and there were many distractions in London that had not been available during their days in the U.S. Things to do. People to see.

On holiday, there had been the brief errands for Mycroft, and then the rest of their days had been taken up with sightseeing, and lunching at interesting restaurants. They’d gone to Mount Vernon one day, and some of the Smithsonian museums on another. A third had taken them to various memorials and government buildings, quite beautiful even if most were far less ancient than such things tended to be in England. Evenings had found them back at the Turner residence, partaking of Thanksgiving leftovers (apparently another tradition), movies, games, and then, at last, bed.

Once they’d begun their initially tentative yet increasingly satisfactory new physical relationship, neither Sherlock nor Molly wished to stop, nor did they, for the duration of those few nights. Molly knew Mary had suspected what was going on, but she’d said nothing, and John had seemed oblivious. Jet lag lingered among all four of them, after all, and had certainly been a convenient excuse to retire early. It had also served to account for heavy eyes and bemused expressions at the breakfast table.

Within a week of their return to England, Mycroft again called on Sherlock and the following day the Consulting Detective flew off to Berlin. He had not come to say goodbye to Molly, but he did text her.

 

Off to Berlin. Bloody Mycroft again. You’re well?  - SH

 

Yes. Thank you for letting me know. Christmas? - MH

 

Should be back for it. - SH

 

Good. Take care. - MH

 

:-)  - SH

 

The emoji made her laugh, for he always claimed to detest the things.

Which might say a great deal, depending on what one wished to read into it.

Molly decided she would read into it her heart’s desire.

 

*

 

It was a couple of hours before midnight on December 22nd when Sherlock’s plane landed at Heathrow airport. The flight had been delayed, and he was exceedingly grateful the car his brother had sent to fetch him home had deigned to wait. London was enduring a bout of freezing weather -- snow was actually predicted for Christmas -- and Sherlock was enduring the worst cold he’d had in years. The malady had come on quite suddenly a few days before, starting with a severe headache and scratchy throat, progressing through watery eyes and a stuffed up nose, and had now settled in his chest. His resonant voice was appreciably lower in tone, and very hoarse, and the sleep he so sorely needed had been disturbed by fits of coughing these last two nights. And, though his illness had been bad enough in Berlin, it seemed to have become progressively worse in the last few hours -- the other passengers on the plane had given him some very wry looks, to put it mildly. Now, instead of looking forward to the holiday, he only longed for hot tea and honey, as his mother had used to make him in similar circumstances, and for his pyjamas and dressing gown, and his fire place. And his bed.

He was dozing by the time the car reached Baker Street. The driver actually had to give him a bit of a shake to wake him.

“You alright, sir?”

“Yes! Fine!” Sherlock exclaimed, quite shocked at his lapse. He exited the car with all speed and mumbled thanks, grabbed his suitcase -- the driver had already fetched it from the boot and it was sitting there, next to the steps -- and let himself into 221B.

It was past eleven o’clock now, but Sherlock had thought Mrs. Hudson might still be awake. There was no sign of life, however, and he debated whether to disturb her. She would make him his honeyed tea, if he asked, though she might also make more of a fuss over his condition than was desirable. In the end, he decided not to knock on her door, but continued up the dim staircase in as noisy a fashion as possible, half hoping she’d peek out to see what the commotion was about.

A vain hope, he realized as he wearily reached the landing. Perhaps she had gone out for the evening and was not yet returned. Mycroft had obviously neglected to inform her of her favorite tennant’s impending arrival and Sherlock would open the door to a dark, cold, lonely flat.

_ Lonely. _

Bloody hell, why hadn’t he sent Molly a text?

Well, of course, because he’d had some asinine notion of surprising her.

And wouldn’t she just  _ be _ surprised when he had to bloody beg off Christmas entirely in an effort to spare her and anyone else this horrid contagion? He broke into miserable coughing as he fumbled for his keys again, and a wave of Molly-longing swept over him with such force that if he were not a grown man,  _ Sherlock Holmes _ , to whom emotion was abhorrent, and anything less than absolute stoicism and the stiffest of upper lips unthinkable, well, his eyes might have stung with tears of the rankest self-pity, he might have had to clench his jaw, bite that lip in a small, painful way to keep it from quivering--

The door to his flat flew open and there she was.

He gaped at her. Molly. Small and slender, a vision in worn jeans and a holiday jumper, the most perfect admixture of joy and concern on her face, and the whole of her haloed by what appeared to be an explosion of Christmas radiating from the interior of his flat.

He almost staggered. “M-molly!”

The concern immediately swamped the joy. “Sherlock, are you alright? Oh, good lord, what have you done to yourself?!”

“Not me, it’s those German microbes. Bloody poisonous, I’ve got the worst cold…  _ Don’t get near me! _ ”

But she was ignoring his warning, her arms were about him, she was hugging him fiercely, and it simply wouldn’t have been polite not to return the favor, though he kept his face well turned away, his cheek laid against her hair, his eyes closing to absorb the sharp delight of the moment, and the feel of her, strong and alive and real.

“Oh, God,” he whispered, and then, inconveniently broke out coughing again.

“Oh,  _ you!” _ she said, releasing him, then, “Get in here!” as she caught his wrist and pulled him inside.

As she led him to his chair by the bright little fire, Sherlock was dazzled by fairy lights, greenery, the minimal but effective use of tinsel… she’d covered his less holiday appropriate artwork with wrapping paper and bows... there were gold and silver ornaments hanging from the horns of his bison skull... and there was a Christmas tree --  _ a Christmas tree! _ \-- glowing in the corner.

Per history and self-knowledge, he should have hated it.

But as he collapsed into the comfort of his chair and looked about in a dazed fashion, his gaze finally settling on the tree (five feet, nearly perfect in form, radiant with fairy lights, covered with a fascinating profusion of ornaments in all colors, sizes, and shapes, veiled in tinsel, topped with a star) he realized he did not. Far from it. The main rooms of his flat had been transformed with an oddly subtle exuberance, and the words  _ Home for the Holidays _ sprang irresistibly to mind.

_ Home. _

And  _ Molly _ .

He was vaguely aware she’d brought in his case and closed the door a couple of minutes ago, and had gone into the kitchen. And now, she was bringing him a small tray, set it on the table beside him, his favorite teacup steaming upon it, and a plate of what could only be Mrs. Hudson’s mince tarts beside it.

“It’s tea with honey -- Mycroft said you’d caught a cold and that’s what you liked, when he texted me that you were returning this evening. And Mrs. Hudson made you fresh tarts before she went out to play Bingo. She should have been here, too, she helped me with the decorations. Do you like it?”

She was crouching by the chair, now, looking up at him, an uncertain smile on her lips, and a look in her eyes that he’d seen many times before though he’d often purposefully ignored it.

He tried to clear his throat a bit. Picked up his tea with a hand that shook slightly and took a quick sip --  _ hot, soothing, perfect _ \-- set the cup down again, and said to her: “I do. I can’t… Molly, you love me.”

She blushed, but did not look away. “Of course.”

“ _ Why? _ ”

She laughed, rose, and then, somehow, was sitting on his lap, he was drawing her close, laying his head against the soft jumper, the swell of her lovely breasts that were not too small at all, but, as he’d learned during their recent holiday in America, exactly the right size to be cupped in his palms.

She kissed his forehead, and he sighed.

_ Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men _ , indeed.

And yet, though the knowledge of her Christmas gift, secreted in the pocket of his Belstaff, absolutely  _ ate at his soul _ , he’d be damned if he’d give it to her when it was inadvisable, even criminal, to kiss her lips.

So he merely said, “Molly, it’s the best Christmas ever,” closed his eyes, and sighed in silent thanks.

  
  
~.~


End file.
